Lived to Long
by ChangingTheCircumstances
Summary: A simple drabble of Watson and Lestrade are now old men and how they go down to a graveyard to visit some old friends. Only slightly over a thousand words.


Watson walked down the long forgotten path. He had a walking stick again but not because of his physic somatic limp. Watson was finally getting old. At eighty-nine he was still surprised at how well his eye sight was and how steady his hands were. He still had a full head of hair but it had turned a light gray now and would probably soon turn white if he ever got any older.

By his side was the now retired Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who had lost most of his hair, at age eighty-four. Along with Watson they both wore simple black suits.

Side by side they walked. Silent. Deep in thought. The leaves were yellow and orange, and the branches dry and broken. A soft breeze blew through the seemingly dying forest. There was an absence of animals too. The path they walked down was made of a bit of gravel but it was mostly trodden dirt. Soon, the path widened up and they stood in front of a rot iron gate with long curling spirals. The paint was flaking off along with twisting spikes of rust.

Lestrade moved in front of Watson and pushed open the gate for him so that he could get through easier. Watson nodded his thanks but he still did not talk and neither did Lestrade. In front of them was a cemetery. It hadn't been used in many years. In fact, the last people to be buried in the cemetery were the ones that Watson and Lestrade were visiting.

They walked towards the back, moving in between worn, broken grave stones; many of them were unreadable. By the back fence were the newest of the head stones. There were four. Three of them had the names of Sherlock Holmes, Sarah Watson, and Molly Lestrade.

The fourth one read John W. Holmes.

Once again with the help of Lestrade, Watson slowly lowered himself to the ground in front of them. He finally spoke for the first time as he stared back at the old graves. "I miss them," he said simply.

Lestrade sat down next to him and let a long sigh, full of loneliness and lost. "I miss them to."

"Why didn't your daughter come with us? I figured she would want to," Watson replies to him. "You know, see her mother and all that."

"I didn't think she was ready. She really took her mother's death hard."

"Yeah, at least she got to be with her mother for more than a decade," Watson replied testily with bitterness in his voice.

"John,-" started Lestrade but he was quickly cut off.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't blaming you for what happened. I know it was an accident but still I," he stopped to take a deep breath. He had promised himself that he wouldn't cry but he could feel the tears coming anyway. When he was sure that he wasn't going to cry, he began again. "I just can't help be a little jealous. Sherlock died after only a decade but you at least got to grow old with Molly. You also will probably never have to bury your daughter. I had to bury my son at the age of seventeen. And then when I finally remarry Sarah dies from cancer five years later."

He had to stop because despite his promise he was crying anyway. Lestrade took out a pack of tissues that he had brought just in case. He had planned to use them for himself but Watson was obviously more fragile.

For a while Watson thought back to those times were he had lost loved ones. He remembered the exact place where Sherlock died. Watson remembered how he held his dying body in his hands while he bled to death and how he couldn't do anything about it. It had been impossible to stop the bleeding. He then remembered how his son had died in the car accident and he couldn't do anything. Watson remembered how he had found out how Sarah had cancer and how he couldn't do anything about that either. There was no cure for what she had had. For a moment they he was silent some more and then Lestrade talked once again.

"Sometimes the world is unfair. Sometimes we get loved ones taken away and we cry because it isn't fair."

"You can say that again. That reminds me. Out of everyone that is still alive there is still Moriarty and Moron. I happen to be having dinner with them tomorrow evening. I never thought I'd say that in my life. It's surprising enough that they were at Sherlock's funeral and sorry about his death and now I'm having dinner with them. Care to join me?" Watson asked with a small smile on his lips.

Lestrade gave a hearty laugh and replied, "No, I'd probably launch myself at him. For my whole career I tried to pin him down and I never did. I defiantly don't need to eat dinner with him or his sniper for that matter. I don't care if he has retired or not he will always be a criminal by me."

"Maybe so but he has become a good friend in my strange times of crisis. Believe me I still hate his guts but he is now a friend of mine anyway," replied Watson laughing right back at Lestrade.

For a while they sat in their memories. Sometimes they told stories of old cases or simply of times from when they had hung out. They told stories of loved ones. Some were funny while others were sad. As time passed and the sun went down while the moon came up they continued to talk. However, when the time finally reached 17:00, army time, Lestrade, with a long sigh, and Watson, with some help, finally stood up and started to head back towards the old beaten path. On the way they made sure to close the gate behind them out of respect.

They made their way back down the path which they had come when Lestrade finally asked, "Hungry?"

"I thought you'd never ask. You buying?" Watson replied with a crooked smile on his face.

"Maybe. Maybe," Lestrade replied. He took out a cigarette and took a long draw from it. Together, side by side they headed back into town.


End file.
